


Lust

by mildlyholmes



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/M, Sneaky Sex, Wall Sex, i wish i could say this was porn without plot but, it really isn't, why do i keep doing this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyholmes/pseuds/mildlyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lectures are over, the university is quiet, and he wants her. She lets him drag her into the broom closet, too maddened to deny the fact that she wants him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lust

**Author's Note:**

> So. I've come up with a new AU—well, actually, I came up with this long before I thought about ATS—but won't go around to posting/writing it until I've finished with After The Storm. And that's just a maybe. This one, though, will probably be a lot lighter than ATS and most likely happier, too. Oh, and there's a lot of social drama and way too much sex.
> 
> What I have in mind is a vague High School/University (or college) AU, where Erik and Christine met in high school and were together for a short period of time. They had something really special, but both were very unsuited for each other since Christine was still mourning her father and Erik was dealing with issues of his own (insecurity, volatility, etc). One day, Erik leaves and doesn't come back, and Christine is devastated.
> 
> Flash forwards to university/college, where they seem to coincidentally meet again. Both people are changed from the years, with Erik growing more confident and sure and Christine becoming more independent and fiercely loyal to herself. Basically, they've grown into the people they're supposed to be. From then on there's a lot of sexual tension and a fragile friendship forms between them, one that is in danger of being broken at any moment. And Nadir, Meg and Raoul are in this too.
> 
> So this is like a little... snippet of one of the times they kinda lose control and just go at each other.

 

* * *

_"Maybe I should get down on my knees and worship you. I'm gonna undress you. Vulgarise you a bit. Lift up your dress."_

* * *

They are all gasping breaths, grinding bodies, wet kisses.

Erik presses her against the wall, rough and careless in his movements, frenzied with lust and power. She is maddened enough to want to give it to him.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers that they are in a meagre broom cupboard on campus, that there are people around and he is pushing her bra strap down her shoulders. There was so much at risk; anyone could walk in on them at any moment.

And yet she is drugged by his kisses, starved of his attentions. It's been too long since she's had him this way and _damn it_ , she can't find it in herself to care about anyone else in this moment.

"Christine," he whispers against her neck and she moans, breath hot against her skin. She can feel him pressed against her abdomen, hard and thick and she throbs in need at the  _want_ of him.

He's saying something, but she can't concentrate with the feel of his lips dragging kisses down her neck. He grazes a sensitive spot and she threads fingers through his hair, tightens and tugs black locks. Hazily, she struggles to listen to what he's saying between hurried kisses, grabbing hands.

"...don't think I'll be able to do what I want to do with you," he rasps, white mask cutting into her cheek as he bites at her lower lip. She moans at the insinuation, arching and pressing her curves against his solid chest.

"Do what?" she murmurs. How long had it been since she'd kissed him, touched him in this way?

 _Too long_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispers. She drags his lips back down to hers. The mask is in the way, so she shoves it off in one swift movement. It clatters to the floor, joining her forgotten shirt and she presses her palm to his face, sighing at the feeling of marred flesh beneath her palm once again. It draws a deep, desperate groan from him.

He kisses from jaw to ear, unhurried yet still feverish, and whispers words that make her shiver.

"Taste you. Drag my tongue over you, make you come into my mouth."

She closes her eyes and lets out a moan, intoxicated on arousal and heat, on  _him_. She remembers their old days together, remembers how talented that tongue was, how eager he was for her pleasure—and he's offering it all to her again, with the added bonus of several years of maturity. It makes her tremble with nervous anticipation. A hand strokes down the back of his neck to rest on his shoulder, the other fluttering over his mangled cheek. A thrill shoots down her spine at the sight of his eyes shutting in pleasure, at his face leaning into her touch, sharp, defined lips mere inches from her own.

"Why not?"

Golden orbs blink open and a faint smirk begins to form on his lips. "You, Christine, are much too loud."

She can't help the flustered, shy smile. "I can be quiet," she promises, cobalt eyes darting up to meet his.

He holds her gaze for a moment. "Are you sure about that?" he asks, his tone amused.

Heart beating wildly in her chest, she nods quickly, running on adrenaline and lust and  _him_.

He doesn't go back on his word. Instantly he is down on his knees, hiking the fitted skirt higher up her thigh, the material gathering by her abdomen. Her mind goes blank at the feel of a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the fabric of her lingerie.

"You're so  _wet_ , Christine," he groans, and the feeling of his hot breath against her flesh is enough to make her fall apart right then and there. And then she can't speak, can't think, because he's pushed apart the fabric separating their skin and  _oh god his tongue_.

Erik pushes her against the wall, growling so deeply, head trapped so tightly between her legs that she can hardly breathe. His mouth is maddening, and she feels her eyes roll to the back of her head at the feel of slick tongue, curling and caressing her, leaving no part of her untouched. She whimpers, head thunking back against the wall, fingers tugging at his hair, leg thrown over his shoulder. He has never made her feel this way before—this electric, this frantic, this needy. Perhaps it's because of their separation, perhaps it's because of his maturity. It doesn't  _matter_ —all that matters is that this moment seems infinite, this urgent need to grasp at pleasure, dangling from his fingertips. And she's not sure if he's read her mind because suddenly she feels his fingers moving within her, stroking her core. She has to tear a hand away from his hair to press it against her mouth, muffle her cry.

It's all too soon when he stops, and she feels like yelling at him for it before she realises that he's standing before her, wildly tugging at his belt. The realisation of what he wants, of the fact that he  _knows_ , remembers how difficult it was for them to reach the height of satisfaction together makes her impossibly  _more_ aroused—and, if she'll admit it, feeling tender with affection and warmth. So she hurriedly moves to help him, using shaky hands to undo the buttons of his jeans. Feels the evidence of his desire in her hand, thick and warm and throbbing, and wants nothing more than to feel him inside her  _right now_.

It feels natural to drag his mouth back to hers, to taste herself on his lips. She's no longer composed, now; she is impatient and yearning and  _empty_. His jeans are not even off and the lace covering her sex is hastily pushed aside but he lifts her up anyway, slides into her despite their obstructions. It is nothing like feeling skin against skin, but by now she's too overcome with need to care.

He lives inside her, throbbing and hard and foreign and yet so,  _so right_. There is nothing like this, nothing like him; his hardness sheathed within her, filling her with an impossible pressure. She swallows his breath, kisses him with a ferocity she's never quite managed yet felt all along, clawing at his scalp and neck. Slips her palm underneath his shirt so she can grab at the firm, hard muscles of his back.

He thrusts, and a mingled moan is lost between them, caught and strangled. "Erik," she gasps, sobs, whimpers, hooking her legs around him. His reply is a hitched, breathy sound that makes her shiver with want for him. Oh, god—to finally be joined with him again, to feel him inside her once more.

They look provocative and yet still manage to remain covered; he stands between her legs, drapes his body over hers so that none of her skin is revealed, nothing apart from the flesh of her legs, her pale arms. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, explores and licks and bites until she goes dizzy, intoxicated by all the sensations he's making her feel. His name is a mantra upon her lips; she whispers it into his mouth, moans it into his ear, chants it as she spins higher and higher into herself, lost in the rhythm he creates for them.

And  _Erik_ —he runs off a confidence she's never seen before, thrumming with a boldness and possessiveness as he moves into her again and again. Erik is vibrant and alive, and in this moment, he is all hers. She takes his breathy groans, his hushed gasps and claims it for herself. His low timbre is raised in ways foreign and exciting to her, thick and twisted, the sexiest thing she's ever heard. Everything about him is wildly attractive: his body, his distorted face only she can see, his name tongued on her lips. The way he moves is practiced, almost feline under her arms. She clutches him tighter, knowing that she is close, she is  _so close_ and she wants him to come with her.

When she climaxes, it feels like a miracle. Stars explode in the back of her eyes, body convulsing and thrumming and singing in ways she's never felt before. And perhaps it  _is_ a miracle, because she feels him spilling into her as she clenches around him, warm and wet and living. The knowledge that they have reached their pleasure together makes her strangely emotional and excited all the same. She kisses him and gasps into his mouth, feels him grip her waist and back.

He shudders so violently, and for a moment they seem to wobble from how unsteady he is. But he quickly turns so that his back is against the wall now; she tightens her grip around his neck, squeezes his hips with her legs. Her forehead is pressed to his and he slides down the wall, too exhausted to stand, until he is sitting on the floor with her on his lap, their bodies still joined together.

For a moment there's only the sound of their gasps, each struggling to catch their breaths. Both are stupefied, astounded, struck dumb from how  _marvellous_ it had been when it had never been so before. If sex with Erik used to be good, it was now  _electrifying_. She feels everything at once, so dazed and stunned that if he were to ask anything of her in that moment, she wouldn't hesitate to give it to him.

After a while, when they can properly breathe and think and speak, he voices what they are both thinking. "Wow," he exhales, letting his head fall back against the wall. She observes his heaving chest, his usually pale skin flushed and warm. She has done this to him, she thinks triumphantly. He shifts and she feels his softened shaft move within her, striking her with sensation and song. She soars.

"Wow," she agrees. There are no words spoken as she leans into him, nuzzles his neck in a dangerously affectionate way. It is comforting, to be with him like this again. Almost comforting enough to want to convince her to stay.

Warning bells go off almost immediately in her mind but she pushes it away, content to forget about their past and simply live in the moment. She chooses to focus on the steady, relaxing trace of his fingers down her back, and sighs, sated and happy.

He always did make her so happy.

All it takes is one sentence from him for her world to shatter around her.

"Can we... forget this happened?"

His voice is muffled by her hair, and she pulls back sharply to look at him.

"What?" she questions dumbly.

Erik sighs, uses lithe, long fingers to play with a curled strand of hair. But where she would have expected him to be hesitant and uncomfortable he is steady and confident, sure in his words. Erik, and yet not the Erik she had known.

New Erik.

"Christine, we can't do this," he says firmly, holding her gaze with hard, golden eyes. She doesn't want to look at him, tries to duck her head but he catches her chin and holds her fast. "We  _can't_ ," he stresses. "Not after everything that happened before."

She wants to scream at him, yell at him that he's wrong, that they're fine together and always had been. Tries to push away the memories of the pain she'd felt when he left her, tries to forget how intense, encompassing,  _otherworldly_ their relationship had been.

It was too much and when he left, she broke. The endless tears, the gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness and sorrow that gripped her so tightly, made her want to scream in agony and hurt.

It had been the most painful experience of her life, being without him. If she had to go through it again, she'd probably lose herself entirely.

Erik's still searching her gaze, waiting for an answer. His golden eyes are wide and honest for once, and she sees everything she wants for them reflected in his eyes: love, happiness, fulfilment. But there's also grief and regret and an ache, cutting deep and vicious.

And she knows that he's right, knows that they can't do this.

So she nods dejectedly, looking down between their chests. She feels strangely hollow even after what they shared, quick and unplanned in this empty broom closet after the hours of lectures. He is still inside her and it is bittersweet, the purest agony. She doesn't want to look at him—she's afraid if she does, she'll start crying.

Fifteen minutes later they emerge, clothes lightly rumpled but in place, their movements jerking and uncomfortable. Their goodbyes are forced, with her fist-bumping his arm awkwardly and him giving her a stiff nod in return. The warmth she had felt from him disappeared, replaced by a cool indifference reflected in golden eyes.

He walks away from her and she walks away from him. And when she's out of the building, she ducks into an empty street and finally lets herself cry.

* * *

 


End file.
